Page 70 of Penalty Box
“Everyone’s mad at me because of a policy they had to sign?” I folded my arms across my chest, working hard to seem asnonchalant as possible. Inside, my stomach churned violently. “Shouldn’t they be directing that anger at admin?”
Carter shrugged, absently stacking and restocking empty popcorn boxes. “Because you’re the reason behind admin’s decision to ban… what was it? Oh, right, fraternization.” He fixed me with a cutting look.
“You think I’m the reason?” The laugh that came out of me was tinny, hollow. A dead giveaway that I was talking through my ass. I hoped to God he wouldn’t notice. “I’m in the dungeon for most of my shift. I come up for air when the ice needs resurfacing. That’s it. What could I possibly be doing to—”
“You meanwhocould you possibly be doing, don’t you?” And he seemed so smug about it too. Like he had me all figured out. “And I don’t know, Cass. You tell me.”
Heat rose up the back of my neck and slowly crept onto my cheeks. A confusing blend of humiliation and anger. Aside from a few false fire alarms, my work at the arena had been error-free and top quality. Who I dated shouldn’t mean I get treated like a kid.
Worse than that was the realization… If everyone was spreading rumors about me fraternizing, then it’s pretty obvious where my dad’s cold shoulder was coming from.
“You’re all idiots,” I said then, for lack of a better rebound. “I suggest you get a hobby so you’ll have less time to gossip.”
I walked off without saying another word, or waiting for him to retaliate. My ears burned, but I kept putting one foot in front of the other. As long as I did what they paid me to do, there’d be no fuel to add to the fire.
I prepped the Zamboni, finished the fix on the skate sharpener, and cleared debris from the dasher boards. Thescrape of my boots on the concrete helped drown out the noise in my head. Kind of.
The team was still on the ice, doing a brutal round of drills. The boards rattled with every check. My dad stood by the bench, arms folded like he was daring someone to piss him off. Mason pushed harder than ever, clearly wanting to make up for missing the game. He blamed himself for the loss, even though that made no sense at all. The assistant told my dad something about Mason’s form, and I couldn’t help but notice the way he visibly tensed up at the mention of his name.
It could’ve been nothing. Just the residual disappointment of losing in New York. But I didn’t stick around to find out. I kept my head down, did my work, stayed invisible.
It didn’t matter, anyway. The staff could think what they wanted. I wasn’t here to make friends. But no matter how many times I tried to comfort myself with that thought, it didn’t stop the ugly twist in my chest every time I caught someone whispering and glancing my way.
When practice was over, I’d all but disappeared into myself. I was still sweeping up loose tape and sticks near the back hallway when I heard his voice.
“Cass.”
I turned.
Mason stood there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, freshly showered, damp hair curling slightly at his temples. He looked tired, in that bone-deep way grief settles in. But the second I lifted my face to him, something shifted behind his eyes.
“You okay?”
It might’ve seemed like a nothing question to him, but it was all kinds of loaded. How did I begin to explain what I felt? Everything. At the same time.
Guilt over lying to my dad. Jeopardizing his job, essentially. Miserable for having to keep my distance from Mason, despite every molecule of my body wanting the exact opposite. Exhilarated by the idea of this guy who seemed to just get me in a way nobody else had before him. Deeply unsettled by the idea that he might slip through my fingers for the sake of everyone else’s happiness, including his.
“You wanna get out of here?” I tilted my head toward the service entrance in the back hallway where the Zamboni was parked for the night.
He nodded.
We walked in silence. When the heavy garage door clicked shut behind us, muffling the hum of the arena, I finally let out a long breath. It felt like I’d zipped us back inside the bubble where everything was fine and actions didn’t have dire consequences.
The overhead lights buzzed softly. It smelled like motor oil and ice shavings, but also all the possibilities in the history of ever.
I leaned back against the Zamboni, hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Everyone hates me.”
“No they don’t.”
“They do,” I said with a challenging gaze. “They think I’m the reason they had to sign that ‘no fraternization’ clause. Your teammates included.”
He stepped in closer. “None of that matters. It’s all bullshit red tape, and you know it. People trying to control what they can’t have any control over.”
“You didn’t see the way they were looking at me. Even my dad’s weirder than usual.”
“He’s pissed about New York,” he cut in. “Not about you.”
“I’m not so sure.”
